


Hunted

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hunters & Hunting, Non-Consensual, Pre-Canon, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-31
Updated: 2006-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was never hunting alone again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunted

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series, New Orleans, vampire fic thing. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/176331.html).

Goddamn fucking cops and their nosy, mistrusting ways. Who really cared if a car was parked at night in the industrial district? Did he really have to loiter around just as a hell-demon was dogging Dean’s ass.

Of course he did. Because that was how things went.

The cop car had started down the street just as Dean had gotten out and he’d ducked into a nearby alley to wait for him to move on. Which he never did, instead slowing to a stop right behind the Impala, Dean cursing his parentage. The cop not the car. 

He hadn’t been able to get any of the important weapons and the vampire had caught up with him when he started using the alleys to circle around.

Goddamn typical was what it was.

Dean groaned as he rounded another corner and found yet another dead-end alley. Just fucking great. This vampire was laughing at him, taunting him with its presence, and Dean couldn’t find a piece of wood to save his life. It was unnatural. What, was there no wood in the entire city? 

All he wanted was a single stake. Hell, silver, wood, he’d take what he could get. Or a cross. If he happened to run over a church in the next twenty fucking seconds, it wouldn’t go unappreciated.

Just, God, _anything_.

He ran to the next corner and yep, another dank, dimly-lit alley. Was this city built like a rat trap or was she playing with him?

There was a dumpster a couple feet in and hey, there could be wood. Maybe someone threw out a broom or something.

Were brooms still made out of wood?

He had the lid up and a sleeve covering his nose and mouth instantly, squinting into the interior.

Sawdust.

Not funny. He threw down his arm in frustration, not really needing to be protected from the smell of rotting sawdust, and spun back toward the little road in between warehouses, a little road that never hit a major street, apparently.

Sawdust meant there was wood around, but he had no hope of breaking into one of these warehouses. He’d tried; they were all locked tight, chained and padlocked and what had happened to trust, people?

Just as he reached the entrance to the alley something black and squeaking flew out of nowhere, claw scratching across his cheek, hiss automatic as pain flared along his nerves.

Oh, fuck _that_. That vampire better not have messed with his face.

He couldn’t feel too much blood, just a stingy ache, and he’d worry about it later. The squeaking moved behind him, back into the shadows of the alley, and he turned, trying to track it. Which became much easier when it suddenly morphed back into a woman.

Dean couldn’t move. Oh, not the whole, ‘struck still by her beauty’ shit, he literally _could not move_.

Definitely playing with him.

“Poor little mortal. Were you trying to hide from me?” she asked, slowly gliding his way, looking like nothing but a long-haired twentysomething goth chick with unfortunate taste in clothing.

Must be in his head, too. Vampires weren’t the silky, fuck-me-now Drusilla-types like on _Buffy_ —and Dean would so have hit that, who cares that she was off her rocker.

But no, they were cold, decaying corpses stuck between the here and the hereafter and they weren’t pretty. 

So she _must_ be in his head. 

It took him a minute to realize he could move his head, speak. Limbs were still held stiff as ever, though. “Just looking for a little wood to light your fire,” he growled, struggling ineffectually. His muscles didn’t even _move_ , no matter what his mind told them to do.

She came to a stop in front of him, smiling slightly, and Dean’s eyes fixed on her lips, a deep blush against white, white skin.

The last victim had been found yesterday, a few alleys over.

She leaned in close, thumb tracing sharply down his jugular. Dean gritted his teeth. What the fuck was she waiting for, anyway?

“A hunter without his weapons,” she tsked, moving in close, and closer still, pressing up all against him and pouring off heat.

Totally in his head. All an illusion. There was a decaying corpse plastered against his front, he just knew it.

If only his senses weren’t smelling rose oil and feeling warm, attractive girl, maybe his body would believe him.

Decaying. Corpse.

“Yeah, well, who knew the cops actually patrolled in the city with the highest crime rate in the country?”

She hmmed, mouth against his neck and he was just waiting for the prick, the slice of pain that would mean the end of it all, in some fucking alley, alone in a city he didn’t even _like_ , all its voodoo shit making his life impossible and—

The tongue was just _wrong_.

“What the hell?” he asked, trying to jerk his head back, but he could only go so far, his muscles giving him grief when he tried to push past the limit.

Her fingers pressed against his stomach firmly and she murmured something too low for him to hear, licking tiny licks right above where his blood so unknowingly chugged through his veins.

Not that he was complaining about the whole not dying thing but, uh— “What are you doing?” he asked, jumping as she bit.

But her teeth never broke the skin, just grazed. A normal bite. A warning shot?

What. The. Fuck?

“I want someone to play with,” she said lowly, fingers tracing up is stomach and to his chest, trails of fire wherever they touched.

Victims. Dead guys. All found with smiles on their faces. _Christ_.

“Yeah, living forever and biting everyone you meet will just kill your social life.”

She breathed out against his neck, breath pooling around him and no, no methane or decaying flesh there, still roses and ‘fresh as a flower’ had never been so truly fucked up.

She nuzzled under his chin, followed when he tilted his head back, laughing under her breath at his effort. Suddenly his neck went rigid, was wrenched down, even as she lifted herself up, pressed careful lips against his, teasing.

Dean gritted his teeth, kept his mouth firmly closed. Only way to become a vampire was to drink their blood and he had no interest in being Spike to her Dru for all eternity. Except, no that sounded wrong.

Oh whatever, he never saw _Buffy_ in any regular order anyway.

Not that he had much of a choice when his mouth opened _against his will_ and he braced himself for the taste of blood and eternal damnation and the horror of having to live with such sickly pale skin.

Could vampires stake _themselves_?

Her tongue darted in, quick and light, but there was nothing, no metal tang, no dying. Just a kiss that went heavy and heady as she prolonged it, wrapped herself around him and went for it, tongue in his mouth and hands in his hair and so close he’d be trembling if she didn’t have a fucking iron grip on him.

Dean was being molested by a vampire because she wanted a plaything and she could kill him at any moment.

He was never hunting alone again.

She pulled back on a sigh, tongue dipping out to taste her lips, light glinting off shiny fangs that were gonna be the last thing he’d ever feel.

Unless he got out of this.

She sighed again, trailing little nips down his neck this time and he could feel the press of them against his skin, two sharp points too soon, but only carefully scraping his skin, a reminder, no intent there. Yet.

“You taste so alive.”

“Well, I _am_ ,” he grunted, getting his mouth back under control and trying not to lick his lips but failing at that miserably. She tasted sweet, cloying, and he couldn’t clear it out no matter how much he swallowed.

Something slid against his neck, and then _in_ , little pinpricks that went straight to his dick, not so much painful and _incredibly fucking good_ and Dean felt his head roll back, groaning aloud at whatever she was doing.

“What the—” he swallowed thickly, trying to get some moisture to his mouth, feeling almost drugged. “hell?”

She pulled back, licking her lips again but this time they were stained, shiny—

Oh.

_That’s_ what it felt like to be bitten? Fuck, no wonder those guys had died with smiles on their faces; it was like having an orgasm sucked out of your neck.

And she certainly wasn’t controlling _that_ part of his anatomy. He was hard all by himself, thank you very much, and she hadn’t missed it.

Dean groaned when she pressed against him, this time with intent, dragging her body down and across, like nothing he’d ever felt before, which probably meant she was still in his head, but who the hell could care when it felt like _that_? And she didn’t seem like she was gonna kill him anytime soon.

And then the world shifted and spun and pain sliced up his spine, concrete biting into his ass and hands, and he was still fucking immobilized, only sitting, legs splayed out like a puppet or a toy.

She was climbing on top of him, straddling him and—

“No way,” he stuttered out, eyes drooping shut on a gasp as she let her weight push down, dragging against his length right where it counted.

Her lips pressed to his again and this time he could taste blood—probably his own—and he couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t keep her from licking in and sharing and blood play had never turned him on but dude. He had no control here.

But no, _vampire_.

She tilted his head back again, licking down his neck, spit or worse cooling in the night air as she went, and then he felt it again, like sucking, but the best kind, fire racing through him at the feel of it, making him cry out.

The sound made her pull back, stop, and one part of his mind screamed at himself for that, for making her stop. He pushed that voice ruthlessly down and shook his head, trying to get some clarity, but she was there, all around him, roses and candy like the best kind of drug ever invented, tasted on her tongue, breathed in her scent, felt in her touch.

Her fingers teased his stomach again, but this time they weren’t content to press through thin cotton, no, they found skin and sweat, sharp nails digging in, even as he shook his head, wouldn’t give in.

That, too, made her pause, pull back but not enough to release any pressure on his cock. 

“You’re stronger than the others, hunter,” she said curiously, dark hair curling around her face appealingly, almost angelic.

Ha. His strung-out mind was hilarious.

“I know what you are,” he rasped, finding it harder to talk for some reason. His throat felt thick and his head fuzzy, but he knew that she didn’t offer the pleasures she pretended here.

“If they knew, every man would want to die so sweetly,” she murmured, invisible hands pulling his head back down, her tongue licking delicately just inside his mouth, nibbling on his bottom lip.

Blood. It was blood but it was roses, too, and Dean couldn’t distinguish—it was all mixed up into—

“Don’t fight it,” she whispered against his mouth, the sound seeming to echo in his head, offering unnamed delights and so very tempting.

His head released he shook it again, clinging to the thought that no, this couldn’t happen. No, he couldn’t give in.

She sucked at his neck, nothing unnatural about it, but offering the memory of the pleasure, making his body respond, not that he needed that when she ran knowing fingers over the bulge in his jeans, releasing even more heat.

“No,” he said again and he forced his eyes open, forced himself to watch for—what? _Something_.

Her eyes darkened. Dean shivered, the temperature dropping, only to go back up even higher, bright and making him sweat, fire in her eyes.

“You will submit to me,” she hissed, hand pressing hard against him, making Dean moan, long and loud.

“You’ve never met the Winchester stubborn gene,” he said, ragged and gasping, voice he wouldn’t ever have recognized.

He gasped in air desperately, couldn’t even smell the city anymore, it was all her, unnatural in its totality. She yanked at his jeans, opening them, but the pressure just built, no relief from anything as she stroked over him, harsh, angry.

Dean gritted his teeth and tried not to moan, tried to stay awake and aware, so tempting to float off. But no. He had to stay _focused_.

She was mad—he could practically taste it—and the little frustrated noise she made at the back of her throat only confirmed it, bringing some fresh air to him like a jolt. But then it was gone and she was shifting away, shifting her skirt only to—

“Fuck,” he hissed, mind wiped blank as she slid down him, like a fucking inferno, a fucking vice grip and Dean shook his head. Too much. It was too much, his mind whispered. That was important.

She pushed his head back again, mouthing bruises, no longer gentle, but when she bit—

Holy fucking _God_.

It was like fucking her and being sucked off at the same time—impossible heat and wetness and incomparable pleasure being pulled in two different directions, didn’t know where to go, what was up or down, what was more important, her mouth on him or his dick in her.

She moved steadily up and down, clenching around him too perfectly, even as her mouth pulled away and plunged back down, again and again, the variation a million pinpricks of light running up and down his spine in a rush that was _unreal_.

Unreal and impossible and “no,” he mumbled to the sky, even as he groaned and cried out and came, hard and pulsing, a fuzzy blank-out that would have had him falling if she didn’t keep holding him up, mouth and body still moving, still coaxing.

Dean breathed and breathed and breathed and still only smelled her, mind only slightly less fucked now that he’d come, getting even clearer when she suddenly stopped, pulled her mouth away from him, the back of her hand wiping the trickle of red that threatened to get away from her.

His body felt thick and unwieldy, he was still inside her, and he couldn’t do anything but look at her sharp little teeth, move up to her considering eyes, narrowed and angry and measuring.

“You’ve more strength than any of the others, hunter. But that won’t save you,” she murmured viciously, leaning back down, eyes flaring and giving the impression that it wasn’t gonna be so pleasurable now that he’d refused to submit, enjoy it.

“All right, you two, break it up.”

The voice startled her, would have startled him if he could move, and she quickly turned from Dean, snarling something.

The cop visibly stepped back, color draining from his face as he dropped his flashlight. Dean watched it roll and roll and roll, casting playful shadows along the ground and it took him a moment to realize she was off of him, another to realize what that meant.

He tucked himself away, rolling to a squat that was almost too shaky to be called as much, breath pounding in his head.

But he didn’t smell roses, just empty alley, asphalt and motor oil. Fading, frantic footsteps sounded nearby. An echoing laugh.

Another toy.

Dean got to his feet, gasping, staggered out of the alley—and onto the main road, no longer hedged in by buildings, exactly as it had been when he drove up. The Impala sat down the next block, cop car behind it, both silent and still.

He managed to get there, to get into his trunk, breathing hard and sweating too much, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, she was out there. 

There was no way he was in any shape to stake her, but he had silver bullets.

The gun practically dragged him down as he stumbled back to the alleys but he forced himself to ignore it, to follow breathy moans and low laughter, could finally see what they’d looked like.

Pale and dark, yes, but decaying and dead, too. The cop couldn’t see it, even if his head hadn’t been tilted back, her throat working as he moaned.

Propped as he was against a wall, Dean’s gun didn’t even waver—one shot, dead-on, and she disintegrated right in front of him. 

“Was it good for you?” he ground out, still sucking in air, his heart beating and beating, frantic.

The cop held a moment in the air before he slumped and fell, heavy and disorderly. All Dean wanted was to pass out. But no, _think_. Cop. Cop who’d been over his car, probably had his license number. They would at least put out a ‘wanted for questioning in connection with five murders’ thing and murders didn’t go away.

He remembered to shove away the gun and dragged himself over. He checked the cop, barely a kid himself, but he wasn’t bleeding and he roused when Dean moved his head to look at his neck.

“What the hell?” the guy asked, bewildered.

“You okay, man? You were passed out cold.” Well, he looked confused enough to believe it.

“Wha—passed out? No, there was a girl and you and she were—and she—”

Dean pasted on a confused, but charming grin. “What girl?”

“There was no girl?” he asked, blinking fuzzily at Dean.

“Not that I saw. C’mon, I’ll get you back to your car.” Dean pulled him up, even as he felt like falling down beside him instead, and they hobbled over to their cars.

The kid was so disoriented he didn’t even ticket Dean, just drove off with a muted thanks, shaking his head about having the weirdest hallucination, goddamn those weird flus going around, he’d have to get checked out at the med center.

Dean slumped in his car and considered going himself, but with what money? And what would he say? He’d spontaneously lost a lot of blood, oh, look, no mark! Dean rubbed a hand at his neck, feeling a whisper of pleasure that didn’t settle too easily.

He could sleep it off. He probably had some crackers under a seat in here, he knew he had water, and he could sleep for a couple days. At least.

He’d have to call Dad and tell him about it. What a fucked up addition to the journal this was gonna make.

Still. He was never hunting alone again.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
